


Tin Soldier

by Eve (Aoife), IShouldBeWriting



Category: Singularity North
Genre: British Military, Canon Compliant, Ceremony, Death, Gen, Military, Repatriation Of The Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoife/pseuds/Eve, https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShouldBeWriting/pseuds/IShouldBeWriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes doing one's duty is the thing that tears you to to shreds.  And sometimes, it's the rituals used to do so which allows you to rebuild yourself again afterward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tin Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> **WARNING: Contains reference to the death and repatriation of servicemen killed in action.**
> 
> The song used for this story is [Talis Kimberley’s](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UWuJ3HicgSY) song [_“1400Hrs”_](http://www.talis.net/songs/140hours). The title is a reference to the folk song, _[One Tin Soldier](http://www.scoutsongs.com/lyrics/onetinsoldier.html)_.

_”I think that I parked in the very last space  
And the High Street was already full.  
The media circus was well under way  
With their camera and tripods and all;  
And there’s Mister Collier whom everyone knows  
In his coat and his fine feathered hat  
It isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last.  
I regret that I’m certain of that.  
And somebody’s wearing a poppy  
That most symbolic of flowers;  
How the silence spreads when they’re bringing them home  
At fourteen hundred hours.”_

When he was a child he'd had a set of tin soldiers, tiny little molded men that had belonged to his father and had been made by his grandfather. Now he stood there in full dress uniform, a red paper poppy tucked through a buttonhole, and too many medals on his chest. As he waited for the rest of the men to assemble, he couldn't help but feeling like that's what they were; tin soldiers. Hollow bits of lead and iron, without heart or soul.

The civilians didn't see it, couldn't know how it felt to take on this most sacred of duties. At the same time, he couldn't do it without becoming one of them, just another tin soldier. Because the alternative was unthinkable. He mourned too many friends, lost on too many missions in strange lands. For the remainder of the day, he needed the mask the uniform offered.

His men shook themselves into formation behind him, and he swallowed, and pulled on the thin brown leather dress gloves. Small movements had his Sam Browne and sword back in their proper positions. They were both heavy with memories - the tin soldiers weren’t the only things handed down.

The duty officer signalled that the aircraft was incoming and he turned sharply to face his men.

“Ready?”

Looking over the men arrayed behind him, Sergeant Michaels nodded, his own face an expressionless mask.

The thrum of the C-130 approaching could be felt in his bones, and he braced himself. This was not the first time he had performed this duty. It would not be the last. Tradition demanded that each was carried home by men of their own capbadge. Hereford exploited his presence in London ruthlessly, but he would not - could not - refuse this duty.

The hearses were already lined up.

The families were trickling into the stands, each with their own minders. He concentrated on his men, and they on him as the generals and the minister began to appear out of the woodwork.

The long distance cargo plane landed and taxied to a standstill, and he brought the men to attention. The aircraft was positioned perfectly - the pilots also far too used to this duty. His men looked odd in dress uniform rather than their normal black combats and with their bare heads, but that too was tradition.

Counting off the moments in his head, Captain Bennett barked his order just before the trumpeter began to play the last post. The slow, ponderous pace that this demanded took its own toll as he ignored his body’s demands to move faster; to get this duty done.

He halted in his predetermined place on the tarmac and held the salute as his men filed up the plane’s wide rear cargo ramp. Muscles aching from the infrequently used pose, he continued to count, and held his breath as it took far too long for them to return bearing the coffin.

Was it wrong that he was more bitter because this was a man who had served alongside them at the ARC? That he’d fallen to a random, stray bullet, and not one of the creatures they dragged back to their own eras? At least this death was one which could be publicly acknowledged, unlike most of those that took place at the ARC.

He swallowed, and watched as they came back down the ramp out of the C-130; Michaels backing slowly down the ramp, one hand supporting the flag draped coffin. Even from this distance, he could see the stiff set of the muscles in Michaels’ neck and knew that together or alone, after duty was done they’d both be seeking comfort and oblivion in the bottom of a bottle.

The Last Post continued to play, sound dopplering loud and soft as it was carried in the wind that was beginning to build. He turned, and moved ahead of the coffin to the hearse awaiting it, calling on years of physical training to help his body flow as smoothly as he could from the salute he’d been holding. That too was tradition, and sometimes he thought that in a tiny way for the men who performed this duty, it was also salvation. The concentration and meditation required by the ritual gave them something to focus on that wasn’t the intensity of the honours which they’d been called upon to perform. 

Michaels led off, gracefully pacing out the predetermined number of steps that it would take for his men to traverse the distance from the base of the C-130’s ramp to the waiting hearse. Beside the black car, Bennett and the other senior officers waited. 

As they drew closer he saluted the coffin again. He could see the expressions of his men, some of them stone-faced and others just barely masking their emotions. It was the younger soldiers for whom he felt the most sympathy. They had yet to learn the trick of distancing themselves from the experience. Watching their faces was almost the tipping point for him. These men, still so very young and fresh, still experienced the raw sense of grief from which he’d long ago become detached. The reminder of what they felt and the horror at the fact that he himself had grown numb was almost too much to bear.

He held his breath again as they slid the coffin into the hearse, and Michaels shut the door.

_”The veterans’ motorbike club’s out in force  
And their stories should also be sung;  
But it’s soldiers in uniform all down the road  
And dear gods but they look so very young  
It’s good-natured chatter and stranger-well-met  
In this Wiltshire market town –  
And the locals and visitors stand side by side  
As the shops and cafes close down;  
And somebody’s wearing a poppy,  
That most symbolic of flowers;  
How the silence spreads when they’re bringing them home  
At fourteen hundred hours.”_

He snapped out the last order he would give on the tarmac that day and his men turned and marched away. They would change now. Put their black uniforms back on, seal away their dress uniforms for next time, and tuck that far too symbolic paper poppy into a box somewhere safe. In duty uniforms, they’d all go together to salute the coffins as they passed through Wootton Bassett before finally returning to work.

And then he’d get drunk. Seal away yet another ghost and try to forget that if he died while still working at TEAR he wouldn’t even get _this_ dubious honour. In some ways, that part hurt; knowing that while his duties were no less dangerous, he’d never receive the acknowledgement and honours afforded those who died in official combat situations. TEAR's secrets would be the only honour guard present when his men finally laid him to rest.

_”They’re lowering the flags now. The bell rings.  
These soldiers were all sons of ours  
Now the silence spreads; they’re bringing them home.  
It’s fourteen hundred hours._

_Damn.”_

Tomorrow, he’d be back on duty.  
And the world would go on until the next time one of their own died, and Hereford rang, and he put on the uniform again.


End file.
